


but pieces of the earth

by sarcasm_and_sabres



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018-2019 NHL Season, M/M, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 15:35:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18236837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasm_and_sabres/pseuds/sarcasm_and_sabres
Summary: Jack and Sam’s soul bond has always been a platonic one. Not that platonic bonds can’t transition into romantic, but they’re best friends. Jack knows better than to let his less-than-platonic feelings screw up the best thing he’s ever had.





	but pieces of the earth

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Katherine Philips' poem "To My Excellent Lucasia, on Our Friendship." It's an excellent poem, I highly recommend you check it out.
> 
> If you found this by searching yourself, please don't read it. This is fictional and intended solely for personal entertainment.
> 
> Warning for a head injury, though it's not particularly graphic. Let me know if there's something else I missed that needs to be warned for. Set in December of 2018, when Jack was out for a few games with an upper-body injury.

Sam’s never been good at blocking worry through their soul bond.

The first time Jack had gotten injured as a Sabre, had gone down clutching at his leg, the sharp spike of worry coming from Sam hurt almost as bad as the pain radiating from his ankle. Sam’s gotten better at blocking things over the years they’ve been best friends, since they’d discovered their bond, but worry always manages to seep through. And he’s been worrying through this entire game when he should be focusing on playing the Islanders.

Jack can feel him getting closer, both just through the bond’s preference for closeness and by the worry getting even more deafening. It hurts, even as something else within soothes at Sam’s presence when the door opens and Sam comes to a stop at his side.

“Your head’s so loud,” Jack mumbles, eyes closed, but thinks, _I love you._ He wishes Sam would lean in, gentle as he always is when Jack’s hurt, and instead of brushing Jack’s hair back would kiss him on the forehead and make his throbbing head go quiet.

Sam says nothing for a long time, but when Jack finally squints to see what’s going on, his expression is soft and he runs a hand over Jack’s hair.

“Sorry. Let’s go home.” 

Sam leads him out so Jack can keep his eyes closed against the too-bright lights of the arena. This sucks. Jack hates being injured, and especially like this, with nothing approaching a definitive timeline on when he can come back.

“Hey,” Sam murmurs, and when Jack opens his eyes he thinks it’s just because they’re at the car. But Sam pauses before opening the passenger door for Jack. “You’re gonna be back in no time. And we’ve got you.”

“You in my head again?” Jack asks, wincing. Normally he’s better about keeping Sam from seeing anything except what Jack wants him to. Has had to be, because it’ll wreck everything if Sam has access to Jack’s unfiltered, distinctly non-platonic thoughts about him.

Sam just laughs quietly, a little sad, and pats Jack’s shoulder. And that’s another thing Jack loves about Sam. He knows when Jack needs to be let to just be, even when Jack doesn’t know until Sam does it.

\- - -

Jack’s trying to determine whether he has the energy to make food when everything breaks.

It’s an unspoken agreement between him and Sam that when one of them is sick or injured, the other will cook. And Sam’s been doing that dutifully for the past few days while Jack’s brain tries to get itself back into shape, but Jack kind of wants a snack and he doesn’t want to bother Sam.

He’s just decided on grabbing an apple when Sam walks in and sits down at the table across from Jack, determination practically bleeding off of him.

“Everything good?” Jack asks with a frown. 

“Nothing’s—wrong, exactly,” Sam hedges. “It’s just that—well, I guess your concussion must’ve messed with your mental barriers. The night you got hurt, I was getting pretty much unfiltered thought from you, it felt like. And it seemed like you, uh, you have feelings for me. Like— “

“—romantic, yeah,” Jack forces out of his dry mouth. He can’t meet Sam’s gaze, and he’s sure Sam can feel his anxiety through the suddenly shaky barriers Jack has up.

“We should talk about it,” Sam says, and his voice is so fucking gentle that Jack can’t even look at him.

“I don’t think we should,” he says, staring at the table. It’s an ugly table. They should really get one that doesn’t look like it was dragged out of a dumpster, it’s not like they can’t afford it.

“Jack— “ 

Jack can’t sit here and listen to Sam talk in that tone for any longer. He jumps up from the table, some part of him noting with a spark of happiness that’s muted by the sinking in his stomach that his head doesn’t swim at the sudden movement, and beelines for the door.

“Jack, come on,” Sam says, following him and leaning against the hall closet as Jack yanks on his shoes. “Where are you going? You probably shouldn’t be driving.”

“I know!” Jack snaps, anger boiling over. Sam still sounds so fucking nice. “I wasn’t going to, I’m not fucking stupid! I’m gonna go visit the damn rookies, okay? Do I have your permission to walk half a block?”

“Sorry for caring,” Sam says, and he still doesn’t sound angry, just kind of sad. Jack reminds himself to feel bad about it later, when he’s not ready to punch the first thing that moves.

He very deliberately does not slam the door shut behind him and starts down the sidewalk towards Rasmus and Casey’s house. It’s not fair to make them deal with him when he’s like this, though, so he walks straight past and hopes they aren’t looking out their windows. 

\- - -

Jack realizes that he might’ve made a mistake. His head is pounding with every beat of his heart, he’s too damn hot especially considering it’s December in Buffalo, and he’s not quite sure where he is. And he left his phone at home. 

Sam might come looking for him at some point, so Jack just keeps putting one foot in front of the other. Either he’ll find something familiar or someone will find him or his head will explode and he’ll finally be put out of his misery. 

He stares at the ground in front of his feet, trying to keep his focus on avoiding patches of ice. Sam will kill him if he slips and hurts himself. Sam’s already going to be mad at him. Sam’s probably going to yell once he’s home and then make Jack move out.

“Jack!” he hears, and then there’s a pair of legs in his line of sight. He looks up and blinks a few times and it’s Sam, worry etched in every line of his face and seeping through their mental link. “Jesus Christ, you moron.”

Jack doesn’t say anything, just lets Sam herd him up the driveway and inside. He’d been in their neighborhood and hadn’t realized. Sam doesn’t need to know that, doesn’t need to worry. Except he’s already worried, practically dripping with it in Jack’s head.

Jack gets his boots and coat off and gets steered to the kitchen table. It should be warm inside, Sam’s in just a t-shirt and jeans, but even with his sweatshirt still on Jack can’t stop shaking.

“We need to fucking talk,” Sam says, and this time his voice is less gentle. “You can’t just run off without your phone for an hour and a half, especially when your head’s—you know. And you lied to me, you never fucking went to see Casey and Ras. Jack—"

“Not now, please,” Jack begs. His head fucking hurts. He deserves to get yelled at, he knows he does, but he needs a break first

“You can’t keep putting this off! You—"

Jack lets his barriers down, lets his aching head and shaking muscles travel through the bond just long enough that he can feel Sam feel it before he closes himself off again.

“Fuck,” Sam says, soft and gentle again. Jack closes his eyes and there’s a hand around his bicep, carefully pulling him upright. “Let’s get you lying down.”

He half-carries Jack to his bedroom, keeps the lights off as he tucks Jack in and gets a glass of water from the bathroom. He rests the back of his hand on Jack’s forehead and Jack leans into the touch. He doesn’t deserve this, Sam taking care of him.

Instead of that, Jack murmurs, “You’re the best.”

Sam doesn’t respond, just sets the water back on the bedside table and tugs the blankets a little higher. Jack can feel him walking away and shudders involuntarily. He’s fucked up again, hasn’t he.

“You deserve this and a hell of a lot more,” Sam says quietly. “Don’t ever think otherwise.”

Jack hears the door shut behind him and huddles into the blankets. Fuck his concussion and fuck his barriers for not working and fuck Sam, too, for being too kind. Kinder than someone like Jack deserves, no matter what he says.

\- - -

Jack blinks a few times when he wakes up, staring at the dark ceiling above him. The fireworks behind his eyes have dissipated, and he feels comfortably warm. And hungry.

“Hey.” Sam greets him quietly, carefully, when Jack makes his way down to the kitchen. He’s stirring something on the stove but turns to give Jack a soft smile. “I’m glad you’re up.”

“Sorry about earlier.” Jack goes to the cabinet to grab plates, sending gratitude through their bond carefully. 

“Are you feeling better?” Sam still feels worried, but less than he’s been for the past few days. Jack really needs to stop stressing him like this. 

“Yeah, back to normal. Thanks for making dinner.”

“Happy to do it,” Sam says, and Jack hates all of this. They’re being so fucking careful, like in the early days when they didn’t know each other at all and wanted to make sure the bond would solidify healthily. This—this isn’t them.

“I can move out,” Jack blurts before he gives himself time to think. “I don’t want to make things awkward for you or as teammates. I know you’ve only ever wanted a platonic bond, and I— “

“What the fuck?” Sam turns; there’s hurt and surprise in his eyes and sliding across their bond before he pulls it back. “Why the fuck would I want you to leave? Especially now, Jesus, Jack.”

“Once my head heals, then,” Jack says. “Or over the offseason.” Over the too damned long offseason, because they can’t fucking win hockey games, with or without him. 

“Okay, since you clearly need this explicitly spelled out.” Sam sets down his spoon and turns off the burner, facing Jack. “I don’t want you to move out. You’re literally my fucking soulmate. You know I love you, man.”

“But—platonically. And my feelings are—not.” Jack doesn’t know what to do. He’s been trying not to dwell on this conversation but this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

“Just—" Sam runs his fingers through his hair and sighs, then steps forward and presses a gentle kiss to Jack’s mouth. “That not platonic enough for you?”

Jack stares for a moment, lifting his fingers to touch his lips. Sam kissed him. Sam stood in the middle of their kitchen, completely sober, and kissed him. 

_I love you,_ Sam’s voice says in his head, wrapped in tender swirls of emotion. _Not platonically, dummy. Is that clear enough for you?_

Jack can’t respond, verbally or in his thoughts. He just lets his walls drop and pushes everything at Sam—the way his heart jumps when Sam smiles at him, even after years together, the unmatched feeling of jumping into Sam’s arms after a goal or vice versa, how he wants to stay here and to change things here but only if Sam’s at his side, the way his thoughts only clear and his head stops hurting when he’s touching Sam, everything from the past several years. He expects Sam to take a step back, to pause under the onslaught, but instead he feels a rush of warmth and then a pile of thoughts being sent in return.

And, wow, he must’ve been blind if this is how Sam feels every time he looks at Jack. Seeing himself from Sam’s eyes—the warm feeling Sam gets when Jack’s eyes light up, the way Sam’s gut twists when Jack is unhappy or upset or angry or in pain or all of them, the burning desire to make things better, very explicitly _for Jack,_ the soft kisses Sam has wanted to press to his forehead every time he’s held Jack through an injury. It’s—oh.

“You—I don’t deserve you,” Jack says, because these feelings are too much, and it makes sense that he feels how he does about Sam, Sam’s amazing, but Jack’s—just Jack. Never quite good enough, always pushing for that one last step and not quite making it.

“You’re so stupid,” Sam says, but the words are dripping with fondness, and the feelings through the bond undercut his words. “I wouldn’t be in love with you if you were who you think you are.”

You’re enough, Sam says across their bond. You’ve always been enough, and you’re always going to be everything for me.

And with the force of Sam’s emotions pushing behind the words, Jack can maybe feel like it’s true. But either way—

“I love you,” Jack says out loud, broadcasting the same feeling through their link. That’s always going to be an undeniable truth. Two halves of a soul, best friends and—more, now. Whatever they have, whatever they are, it’s always going to be everything for Jack.


End file.
